


The One Where Fulcrum Discovers (Good) Overloads

by fascinationex



Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [19]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Sex, Good Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Vile Smut, briefly mentioned but definite past noncon, incredibly unrealistic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23024122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: Past experience dictates that Fulcrum's likely to have really bad sex with Misfire, and then, if he's lucky, never talk about it again.
Relationships: Fulcrum/Misfire (Transformers)
Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311599
Comments: 12
Kudos: 139





	The One Where Fulcrum Discovers (Good) Overloads

**Author's Note:**

> A heads up so you know what you're going into: fic briefly mentions bad sex but also, separately, implies sexual violence in a prison environment. Does not get explicit about either of these. 
> 
> The "mild dubcon" tag is due to Fulcrum's shit communicating and Misfire's complete inability to take a hint.

It wasn't that he'd never interfaced before or anything.

Fulcrum had had partners. It was just that the partners he'd had were all exactly the kind of mech a slight, poorly-armoured techie in the great Decepticon Empire hooked up with. Big, mean, heavily-armoured ones, guys who didn't much care for him as anything but a warm frame that knew how to keep its head down and not cause any trouble. For much of his functioning, Fulcrum had excelled at not causing trouble.

Technicians were bottom-rung, as far as the Decepticon hierarchy went, followed on up the chain by all sorts of specialists, scientists and medics, until somewhere right near the top you got the ground warriors and close range air support. 

Fulcrum was a big fan of not getting the slag kicked out of him. Sometimes, putting out for bigger, meaner mechanisms was a part of that; it greased the social wheels. He wasn't traditionally attractive, but there were plenty of mechanisms out there who liked the idea of railing a comparatively small technician into the berth. 

That being said, other than as leverage, or in pure self defense, he'd never really, um, gotten the appeal. Overloads were nice but they took an awful lot of effort, and frankly they were usually better when he was alone.

And if his regular experiences had been average at best, Styx had driven that average ...down. Way down. Hit-rock-bottom-then-started-to-drill down. 

He hadn't even bothered to try overloading himself after the Decepticon prison. Sometimes he sort of missed it, but only when he wasn't _actually thinking about it_. 

"It'll be fun," Misfire promised, licking his fingers. 

Fulcrum wasn't sure if he was trying to be showy and suggestive or if he just still had energon on them somehow. Misfire's fingers, in his experience, were pretty much always slightly sticky. 

"I'll make it good? I'm great at it." 

"Ah," said Fulcrum, not sure how best to say 'absolutely not' without the situation escalating. 

He'd definitely heard 'It'll be good,' before, and in his experience it usually preceded a series of events that were not, by any stretch of the imagination, good. Although he'd never really thought about him in that light, Misfire was a warrior type, too—and Fulcrum knew what they liked to do with smaller and weaker techies in their berths. ...If they bothered with their berths.

Misfire leaned harder into him, and then hit the wall with a clank and a squawk when Fulcrum wriggled out from between the two. 

"Hey!" he whined.

"I have to... feed... Grimlock," Fulcrum announced. Then he bolted.

Misfire, undeterred, trailed after him, following the clatter of his steps through the poorly lit and derelict corridors of the W.A.P. 

"Feed the—feed him what! Pinhead! Are you hiding energon? What—" Misfire stopped in an empty corridor. He scratched his cheek. Frowned. "Where'd... he go?" 

He paused for a long moment. 

"Hey," he whined, to the empty air. "Grimlock eats on his own!"

Fulcrum, hiding still and quietly amid a nest of exposed coppery wires and humming circuitry inside one of the walls, listened to Misfire's confused, retreating steps and mumbling. Good to know he really didn't stop talking, even when he was alone.

He cycled the air through his vents, cooling the space beneath his hard-clamped plating. With the softest clank, he leaned back against the wall, feeling like he'd dodged a bullet. Again. 

The yellow lights of his optics gleamed on the far wall in this cramped space, illuminating a small, ragged hole. It wasn't edged with rust, which meant that something had made it. The W.A.P. probably had retrorats. Fulcrum... wasn't that surprised.

Maybe he'd rig up some traps. Retrorats had energon inside them, after all. Misfire would be able to siphon it all out and then they'd use it to fuel the ship or something. 

* * *

Diving into the walls and hiding wasn't going to be sustainable in the long term. If nothing else, Crankcase would catch him eventually, and then he'd be mad. Madder than usual, even.

But Misfire hadn't been deterred—or, weirdly, even distracted for long. He always returned to the one point, and the one point to which he returned was an insistent invitation that Fulcrum should frag him.

"You'll like it," Misfire promised him, apparently oblivious to the fact that Fulcrum was simply not the kind of mechanism who enjoyed interfacing in the first place.

Maybe it was that simple. 

"I don't like interfacing," Fulcrum told him. He didn't sound terribly sure when he said it, so it came out nervous and questioning. _I don't like interfacing? ...Maybe?_ Very convincing.

"Everyone likes interfacing," said Misfire, a frightfully untrue statement. He paused. "Well, not _everyone_ , I guess, but—" Fulcrum decided that the problem where hiding in the walls was unsustainable was a problem for future Fulcrum. Present Fulcrum made himself scarce. 

He could hear Misfire huffing through his vents, loud and annoyed, but no amount of insults or wheedling drew him out, and Misfire didn't know precisely where he had hidden.

* * *

"You look at my wings all the time anyway," Misfire said knowledgeably, apropos of nothing.

They were meant to be clearing out the backmost storage room, sorting things into useful and useless. Of course, pretty much everything on the ship could be sorted into either category depending on the mood.

Fulcrum twitched. He did look at Misfire's wings, and it wasn't that they _weren't_ nice wings, it was only that—well, Misfire's wings took up seventy five per cent of the breadth of any given corridor, and they were also bright magenta. But sure. They were nice wings. Misfire was at least sort of handsome, if not like a sleek polished seeker jet then maybe in a... grimy, mildly derelict kind of way. If you were into that.

Fulcrum sighed. He rubbed his nose uncertainly. 

Misfire... seemed like the sort of guy who'd get bored after one frag, honestly. He didn't love the idea, but Fulcrum decided finally that he might as well get it over with. 

At least he didn't _seem_ like the kind of guy who got off being intentionally cruel to his partners. On the surface, anyway. 

"...Alright, fine."

"... Really?" said Misfire, squinting. He didn't wait for Fulcrum to respond again before he added, elated and too loud, "Yes!" 

Then, quite suddenly, before Fulcrum had even had time to brace himself, Misfire was on him. Fulcrum's back hit the wall of the corridor with a clank. He tensed, but that impact was really the worst of it: Misfire crowded him, but he didn't shove him and he wasn't particularly rough. Even though his fingers were sticky, they were warm and not that uncomfortable. It had been ages since Fulcrum had gotten clean, anyway; he wasn't so worried about Misfire's dubious hygiene standards.

Misfire was only a little taller, but he was wider and heavier, and up close it was more obvious. He hummed and clicked to a soundtrack of poorly maintained internals and his frame was already running warm. His fingers scraped over the expanses of Fulcrum's plating and coaxed their way into transformation seams. He seemed to want to touch everything all at once, but— 

"I didn't say 'alright, fine, _in the middle of the corridor_ '," Fulcrum protested, shoving at him. Misfire did not budge. He was heavier and much better armoured, but it was still a little intimidating to know that Fulcrum couldn't move him at all. 

"Mmm," said Misfire, ignoring him completely. 

He took hold of Fulcrum's wrist, pushing it out from between their frames until it tapped the wall. Then he shuffled in closer and commenced nibbling at the tense cables in Fulcrum's throat. His vents cracked open just a little, sending a rush of warm air down upon his chassis. None of that felt that bad, really. It made Fulcrum cautiously optimistic that this might not be the worst frag he'd ever had, even if it was, you know, with Misfire—who was aggravating on a good day, and didn't seem to think that highly of Fulcrum anyway.

Fulcrum squirmed. "Misfire," he protested again, smacking his knee against Misfire's leg. He had no leverage. 

Misfire bit down, and Fulcrum flinched the second he felt his teeth—but a moment later he realised Misfire had done it sort of _gently_ , not hard enough to scuff him, let alone leave a dent. The feeling was completely different to what he'd expected when he'd thought, _oh, teeth_. It made parts of Fulcrum go... unexpectedly wobbly? 

Fulcrum wasn't sure what that was, and neither was the rest of his unreliable frame: his sensor network rushed to analyse the thus-bitten spot, automatically increasing sensitivity as the energon flow rerouted. 

"I feel like I'm not really being appreciated here, pinhead," Misfire whined, exhaling a hot breath over the bitten cable. And now it was all sensitive and Fulcrum shivered at the odd sensation. Huh. That was... huh.

"I'd appreciate it a lot more if we weren't _in the corridor_ ," Fulcrum said again. 

Misfire made a displeased, mechanical little whining sound.

"You say it like Krok hasn't seen all this before," he complained. But he kept his grip on Fulcrum's arm when he drew away from the wall, and then he hooked his hand around his waist and tugged him along the corridor and around a corner. 

"I'm not going to run away," Fulcrum pointed out. Even though that was exactly what he'd been doing until now.

"What?" said Misfire, looking at him in confusion. He tilted his head like a perplexed cybercat. 

"—what?" said Fulcrum, right back. 

There was a pause while they looked at each other. 

Misfire's optics zoomed audibly in when he squinted. "You're a really weird guy, aren't you?"

"Sure," muttered Fulcrum, " _I'm_ the weird one."

The best thing he could say about Misfire's weirdnesses was that not much captured his attention for very long, so they usually passed quickly. 

Misfire's room was a mess, but it was a mess Fulcrum only got to get a vague impression of before Misfire kicked the door closed behind them and gave him a hearty shove toward a none-too-clean berth. The room lurched while Fulcrum's visual processing tried to keep up with the motion. 

"Oof." Fulcrum's thigh smacked into the berth. He shot an unimpressed glare over his shoulder at Misfire.

"Come on, loser, I'm dying here."

A second later Misfire's sticky hands and—uh, surprisingly strong—arms wrapped all the way around him and pressed him right up against his warm thrumming chest plates. Beneath them, a powerful flight engine startled to life with a growl that Fulcrum felt vibrate through his plating from helm to heel.

Wow, Misfire must be really into this. Either—either he was really into _Fulcrum_ , or else it had been a long time since he'd had a frag. Maybe both... Either way, little wonder he'd seemed so strangely determined.

Fulcrum stilled. Misfire's arms were drawing him in, squeezing him gently against his heavier frame, and there was no doubt at all about how revved up he was. 

Misfire rubbed his face against one of Fulcrum's rounded shoulders. "You feel like you're mad at me," he complained. His field tried to sink into Fulcrum's, but it wasn't having it.

Fulcrum was, kind of. He felt like he'd been nagged into agreeing, and feeling Misfire's engine growl all heavy and excited against his own unfamiliar plating made him painfully aware that there'd be no getting out of this now. 

He made the conscious effort to crack open his seams. The spots that opened up at that command felt totally unfamiliar—he missed his alt-mode—and a sudden influx of cool air chilled his protoform unevenly. He shivered, but it was less in anticipation and more out of an instinct to vibrate and create more heat.

"I'm not mad." 

He'd chosen, after all. He shifted against Misfire and tried to relax. 

He could hear Misfire's vocaliser click back on, and given the likelihood of continued chatter, he did the thing he was really sure would shut Misfire up—or at least make him change the topic. Fulcrum triggered the manual release of the panel that covered his valve. It snapped away with an audible click.

"Oooh," said Misfire, appropriately redirected. 

Fulcrum felt his hand move, and braced himself for the groping that seemed inevitable—maybe grabbing and squeezing until the sensitive mesh of his valve throbbed angrily, probably a couple fingers shoved inside. But none of that was what happened. 

Misfire's fingers were clumsy and not especially gentle, but they skimmed over the edge of his thicker armour and then touched the exposed proto-mesh revealed beneath. Fulcrum twitched, but it didn't hurt.

"Guess you can't be that mad about it," he mumbled into Fulcrum's shoulder, but his attention was clearly elsewhere. 

"I said so, didn't I?"

"Yeah." 

If Misfire noticed that Fulcrum wasn't exactly running hot, he didn't comment on it. He didn't seem to care that Fulcrum's cheap reframe had left his joints creaky and his fans noisy, either. 

His fingers didn't hurt, and after a while Fulcrum stopped bracing for something that probably wasn't coming. Instead he relaxed back into Misfire. 

Misfire kissed his neck, mouth hot and soft on the cables there, and then bit down gently again. Fulcrum twitched, more surprised than hurt. Misfire laughed at him. Fulcrum opened his mouth to complain, but he felt a soft rush of sensation down his spinal strut when Misfire's teeth scraped over the cable there again.

His teeth applied a little pressure, enough for him to really feel it, and nowhere near enough to leave a dent. Fulcrum shuddered and made a surprised little noise. A hot rush of air from Misfire's vents made him shiver. 

"Your mesh's so soft." Misfire's fingers were still running little circles on the protoform revealed by Fulcrum's retracted modesty panel. It was the softer, sensor-rich layer between his outer plating and his internal mechanics. Here, it surrounded the opening of his valve, and Misfire mustn't have been lying about liking the feel of it, because he was certainly indulging in it.

"Everyone's mesh is soft," Fulcrum muttered. He got bitten again—again, too soft to really be a 'bite', just enough that the sensors in the cabling that ran beneath his shoulder startled to life suddenly, and the next soft lick applied to them made him grunt and twitch. It did kind of feel good, that sensation. He leaned back into it. 

"My hand isn't in everyone's mesh?" Misfire said, reasonably. His free hand—the one that wasn't rubing maddening, hypersensitive little circles on Fulcrum's protoform—found its way to Fulcrum's mouth. "Suck?"

Fulcrum opened his mouth and let Misfire slide his finger inside, first one and then two. They tasted faintly of iron and old energon.

Misfire was dumb but Fulcrum did like him. When Fulcrum sucked on his fingers, he made this high, strained noise, and that was cute. Making him sound like that was a pretty good feeling. Fulcrum sighed a deep breath through his vents, then sealed his mouth more comfortably around Misfire's fingers and let his tongue pulse slow and hard against their undersides. 

"Ungh," grunted Misfire, somewhat less intelligible than usual. That was satisfying, but didn't last. "I bet that feels real good on my spike," he added then, sounding very interested in the idea. 

Fulcrum wasn't sure if he really wanted to suck Misfire's spike. That was usually... not very fun. And he wasn't sure if he'd be willing to, er, do that again, especially after Styx. He deliberately didn't answer, and wriggled back against Misfire's warm frame to distract him.

"Bet you'd look really hot doing it, too," Misfire said, which was neither as flattering as he thought it was nor the direction Fulcrum wanted this to go in.

"I," he started, but Misfire's fingers, stroking in random circles across his protoform, caught something that felt very sensitive—in a surprisingly good way. 

Fulcrum beeped at the shocking feeling, high and flat and loud. On the tail of an unexpected flutter of pleasure low in his guts, he felt an attendant rush of embarrassment. He clamped his hand on Misfire's wrist.

Misfire stopped what he was doing with both of his hands and braced the free one on the berth instead, to hold himself up while he laughed at Fulcrum. Fulcrum's grip on the other arm only tightened. 

"What was _that?_ " Misfire cackled.

"You surprised me!" Fulcrum protested. He was flushed. He knew he was flushed. He was sure it clashed with the new (to him) k-con paint job, and probably made his already-kind-of-unappealing frame look extra dumb.

Misfire made his own short binary beep, like he was trying out how he might even produce the same noise, but he didn't hit the same pitch. "Aw, that's cute... Say, Pinhead, do you always make that noise? Is that what happens when you overload?"

"What? No!" Now Fulcrum's fans really were going, even if he wasn't sure it was because he liked the situation he was in.

"Are you su-u-ure?" Misfire wondered. His hands came back. Fulcrum's grip relaxed and he found his fingers sliding gently across Misfire's arm while he slipped his own figers into Fulcrum's hip joint to pry gently into his cabling.

"I—that—" that felt nice, actually, despite Misfire's sticky and dubiously clean hands. He rocked his hip into the touch like a puppet drawn on a string, feeling oddly daring. If interfacing with Misfire was going to be like this—teasing and dumb and pain-free and actually not unpleasant—maybe it didn't matter so much how much of an idiot Misfire was.

"...shut up," he said, having nothing better to fall back on.

"Uh-huh," said Misfire, in the absent tone of one who had never shut up in his entire life and didn't plan to now. "Come on, get up here—" he smacked the berth.

Fulcrum obeyed without protest or even thought, putting one knee on the berth pad and then the other, twitching and venting beneath Misfire's unstudied and random petting. His plating had relaxed enough, genuinely now, that the sensors beneath were taking notice of each new touch, sending him hesitant little packages: _relax, good, nice._ He didn't feel as tense or unsafe as he'd expected. It was... just Misfire. 

"Nice," said Misfire, which was all the warning Fulcrum got before he put both hands on his aft. Fulcrum did _not_ squeak—he made a very normal grunt of surprise—but Misfire laughed as though he had anyway. 

"Oh, you're not orange here at all," Misfire said. Fulcrum twitched at the realisation that he was holding his aft still so he could peer at his valve. 

"I'm not?" Maybe his native nanite colonies were rejecting the paint job. It happened sometimes... 

Misfire's fingers touched the outermost rim of his valve, tracing its edge in one slow circle. 

" _Uh,_ " said Fulcrum, cleverly. His thighs twitched and something in his tank seemed to coil up, unusually interested in that touch. _Yes, please,_ he thought, although he was almost more embarrassed by the idea of actually _wanting_ something touching his valve than by the idea of _getting_ something touching his valve.

"Nah. Pretty, though. Nice lights."

Fulcrum could feel him trace them all the way up to his anterior mode and he choked on his 'uh, thanks?' and just gasped instead. Oh, that was—

"Frag, yeah, you like that," Misfire muttered. 

He left Fulcrum squeezing the berth sheets for a few interminably long seconds while he stroked the soft outer mesh of his valve so lightly it felt like his entire frame had to strain just to feel it. Fulcrum made an unintelligible noise and wiggled— _wiggled_ , he was not going to be able to think about this ever again—his aft back toward Misfire's actually-very-friendly-but-still-sticky hands.

Misfire sure seemed to like it though, so maybe it wasn't _that_ humiliating, right this very second

" _Yeah._ " His engine gave a hard rev, which just reminded Fulcrum that he was a jet and that the engine under his chassis was probably absurdly powerful. "Move, up, come on—" 

He shoved at Fulcrum's thigh and Fulcrum shifted forward far enough that Misfire could crawl up on the berth right behind him. 

He wasn't that much smaller than Misfire, but he was a lot lighter. Misfire' weight—over twenty tonnes of armoured war machine—made the padding sag, and then when he leaned into him it bore Fulcrum right down into the berth. It was both smothering and curiously satisfying. Fulcrum had been shoved face-first into berths before, but he'd never been held there by someone determined to stay as close to him as possible. Or someone so... well, affectionate. 

Misfire's heavy-lift engine rumbled against his back and the boiling air of his vents streamed down upon him. Fulcrum's own internal fans were running hard, cycling air rapidly, trying to cool his frame—futile, when all he could cycle was more blistering air from Misfire clutching him so close. 

"You're so nice," said Misfire, another non-sequitur in a flood of nonsensical commentary. "Your valve is so soft."

His sticky fingers were dragging softly over the surface of his valve, rough metal catching gently on the sensitive outer mesh. Every few strokes he glanced almost accidentally over his anterior node and Fulcrum found his plating shifting and shivering further open.

"Mmm, soft and warm, you're so nice... Can hear your fans going," Misfire added absently, "'s hot."

Misfire had low standards for what was hot. And maybe Fulcrum did too, because apparently dirty talk that was actually complimentary was not just strange novelty for him, but also something that turned him on hard. His face was on fire, pink energon blooming beneath the thin orange plating there, but hearing about how 'nice' and 'soft' and 'hot' Misfire thought he was made the inner nodes of his valve all achy and swollen and hungry to receive the charge of someone else's cord.

He wondered if he should feel humiliated that it was Misfire who'd inevitably be sticking it in him.

Misfire slid his finger into him with an obscene wet noise. It caught on a cluster of nodes immediately inside his valve, glowing fitfully in the sensitive lining. Fulcrum just let his optics go dark, shuddering helplessly right beneath Misfire's bulk. The high powered flight engine rumbling against his back seemed to shake his whole body.

"You're awful quiet, nerd. You like that?"

"You talk—hhhh. You talk enough for—everyone." He'd thought that Styx had pretty much showcased every scream and groan his vocaliser was capable of, but hadn't known it could do _that_. He started at the sound of it. He sounded like a bot in a raunchy holovid: low and soft and staticky, cut with little hitches and sounds of strain. It was the sound of a good actor, or of someone getting done just right. Fulcrum was... a bad actor.

"Frag yeah. You like it," Misfire informed him cheerfully, dragging his fingers over another deeply-buried node. 

His hands must have had the sensitivity dialed up, because he was going out of his way to find those nodes and play with them. Every time he did Fulcrum felt it, clean up his circuits. He got hotter, and he spread his thighs wider to give Misfire better access.

Misfire smacked his knee into Fulcrum's thigh with a clank. It didn't hurt, but it was loud. "If you like it, you're meant to say so. Here, I'll go first—" Of course he would. "—I like how wet you're getting here—" he, it wasn't, it wasn't a _slap_ exactly, more a pat, but Fulcrum was not ready for it, and he yelped at the sudden contact with the exterior of his valve, "—unh, _yeah_ —" he slid two fingers right back inside, slick and a little too fast, and Fulcrum made a noise that was definitely not a yelp, but which was probably equally loud: a low brainless _haaaah_ through his vocaliser. His fans kicked up another degree. "Your valve's drooling like a turbofox at an energon mine. Smells better, though." 

Misfire punctuated what was kind of a graphic (and slightly disturbing) comparison by spreading his fingers as wide as Fulcrum's valve would let them go, which made a thick, liquid noise that would have been mortifying if it hadn't also been very, very hot. 

Fulcrum grunted. "Your hands feel good," he said, finally. Misfire didn't have the patience to wait him out and they both knew it, but he'd made it pretty clear that he wanted Fulcrum to say something... and his hands did feel good. They felt great. So did his rumbling engine and even his rambling commentary. 

"That's it," he encouraged, sounding pleased. Fulcrum couldn't see his face, but he imagined a smile. He could feel his mouth when he nuzzled his face warmly against Fulcrum's shoulder. Curiously that, too, spun his gears. "What else?"

He asked the question, but he didn't really wait for an answer: instead he rubbed his frame forward, scraping against Fulcrum's back in a soft hiss of metal on metal. He rubbed the head of his spike on the outside of Fulcrum's valve. The lips had softened completely with the amount of energon racing to them, and Fulcrum could feel how swollen and relaxed they must have been because it took next to no pressure at all for the thick head of Misfire's spike to slide between them. 

The innermost nodes closest to the entrance of his valve sparked and crackled, lighting up his circuits with aimless pleasure. Fulcrum could feel his engine giving a loud, eager whine, but he barely recognised it. 

From the feel of it alone, Misfire's spike was big, but when he pushed it inside Fulcrum barely even felt a pinch. There was just a long dull stretch, and a heaviness in his valve, and the hungry grasping of calipers just begging to squeeze down on it and clutch it tight. 

Misfire made a flatteringly incoherent noise as he pushed in: steadily, dragging his spike through Fulcrum's thick and syrupy lubricants. It caught all the well-primed nodes lowest in his valve, which responded with wildly enthusiastic sparks of pleasure that made Fulcrum grunt and twitch. The slow penetration forced his calipers wide, and that, too, felt good. Felt wonderful, in fact. A throbbing, heavenly sensation was spreading through his pelvis and belly, so powerful and acute it was almost—but, oh, not quite—uncomfortable. His insides twitched and clenched and tried to squeeze Misfire's spike further along, to pull in more of it. More, more—

"Ahhhh," he said, breathily and blankly, squeezing the stained mesh sheets of the berth. They weren't that clean, which had at first seemed unappealing, but now all he could think was that they smelled like Misfire: a combination of junk food, mixed-quality fuel and hot metal. And apparently that combination made him hot and shaky all over when Misfire's bigger frame crushed him into it.

He was marinating in the smells and tastes and the excited electromagnetic field of Misfire. He didn't hate it. He didn't... 

"More," he croaked, partially muffled by the sheets.

"Frag," muttered Misfire into his neck. "You're so hot," he said, almost like it was a complaint.

Fulcrum was indeed hot, and he could well imagine that it might be uncomfortable: his plating had shifted and opened to release as much heat as it could, and his fans were running so high they were whistling. Misfire dragged his hips back, something in the shape of his spike pulling against every hungry node in Fulcrum's valve on the way.

"Misfire," he whined, even as his plating rang and chimed with his shivering. "More!" 

"Frag," muttered Misfire.

Inevitably Misfire lost patience with the steady, luxurious penetration, and shoved his spike into Fulcrum's valve in short, uncoordinated thrusts that nevertheless felt absolutely glorious as they crashed past nodes that were pushed to their limits and desperately craving the contact. 

Fulcrum wailed, and now he was burying his own face in the sheets, no encouragement needed: his optics were off and his mouth tense, his face scrunched up in an agony of pleasure. 

"Ah! Ah!" His frame jerked with every short, rough thrust, and noises were punched out of him in response.

His valve loosened up—coaxed, stretched, pushed and otherwise persuaded, with heady, sweet little contractions that left him groaning and seeing stars—and Misfire finally got his spike inside him, fully sheathed, embraced snugly by every set of calipers. They clenched and cycled around the heavy spike for a moment, squeezing and massaging, wildly enthusiastic for it in their excitement. 

Fulcrum had onlined his optics again at some point, a fact he only really registered because he could see the dull yellow glow of his own lights on the berth below him. He vented out, fans heaving.

Above him, around him, forcing him down through sheer weight, Misfire whined right next to his audio pickup. "You feel _so good_ ," he moaned. 

Oh. Ohhh. Fulcrum clenched his thighs involuntarily, tightening on the long leg between them and making his valve even tighter. "I—" 

Nothing came out—not words, anyway. It seemed he was still perfectly capable of making hungry and inarticulate noises that illustrated his pleasure. He felt unreal and shaky.

He felt like Misfire's spike, fully sheathed in his valve, was about a nanometer from his ceiling node. The charge was almost a tickle, extremely pleasant but also absolutely maddening. He wiggled shamelessly, then pushed his hips back. 

"Misfire," he gasped.

"Mmm," Misfire said, by way of response. 

He drew back, confirming beyond all possible doubt that his spike was either greatly modified or naturally ridged, because Fulcrum could _feel_ those ridges. Oh, pit, he could feel each and every one of them. They probably weren't that big—mods never _looked_ that big—but they felt enormous, tugging softly on every node, rubbing every solid inch of the inside of his valve in a rush of pleasure.

"Ungh, your valve's rippling," Misfire said. "It's so _soft_ , you're sucking me in, you're—" 

Fulcrum tried to tune out the embarrassing babble, but it had a way of making it through right when Misfire was saying something especially graphic, like a detailed description of the exact way in which his calipers were trying to cling to Misfire's spike even as he drew it back.

He drove his spike right back into Fulcrum's valve, then. It didn't even hurt: his calipers spread smoothly, welcoming and excited, and the extra momentum shoved the rounded head of his spike right against Fulcrum's ceiling node, which flooded him with a shock of pleasure so intense his vision cut to static. "Oh!"

An overload hit him so hard and fast that at first he wasn't entirely sure it _was_ an overload. His senses reeled and he had no idea what noises his vocaliser was now making. Hot, liquid pleasure rolled over him, head to toe, and his frame twitched and spasmed. His valve contracted, calipers cycling in rapid succession, long forceful motions that made Misfire's voice crackle.

He felt his whole frame heave and clench, hard, like a fist, caught up in the throes of a spectacular overload. Above him, Misfire's babble disintegrated into a raw and broken moan. His thigh was shaking, rattling against the inside of Fulcrum's.

Misfire rocked into him before he'd even started to recover, groaning into his plating and mumbling, "You're so hot when you're overloading for me," like that was a thing people even said outside of very dubious porn.

Fulcrum lay limp, his frame twitching and his vents wide open while his fans roared. The heavy weight between his hips felt all liquid and golden, all his joints relaxed in a way he hadn't even known was possible after Styx. He wasn't sure if he'd known it was possible _before_ Styx. 

He still... He felt good from the overload, he thought in vague pleasant surprise, even though it was over. If you could even call that an overload. His circuits tingled happily. Fulcrum groaned.

His valve usually became sensitive, tight and painful after an overload, but Misfire had never stopped and his spike was delivering so much charge that Fulcrum's internal nodes just woke right back up, online, primed, ready for another round—he hadn't known that was possible _at all_ actually. 

But it was definitely what was happening.

"Ahhng." He clutched the sheets harder and threw his weight back against Misfire's.

"Frag, yes," Misfire said, low and rumbly with the vibrations of his engine. Misfire clamped one hand harder on Fulcrum's hip and reached around with his other to dig his fingers just under the ridge of Fulcrum's collar. The new leverage let him heave Fulcrum back as he drove into him. It made the movement between them shorter and less fluid, but also a lot harder. It meant that Misfire's spike rubbed hard against his ceiling node at the apex of each increasingly rough thrust, and Fulcrum just held on and made hoarse, stupid sounds against the sheets.

He overloaded again, harder, limbs shaking and optics entirely offline, with a screech barely muffled by the berth. His valve calipers squeezed ecstatically down on the thick spike inside him.

Heavy and warm on top of him, Misfire groaned something about 'as good as circuit speeders,' (which Fulcrum chose to disregard) into his plating and then Fulcrum felt him overload in a rush of fluid and sweet charge, which bridged all the nodes between their equipment and _kept Fulcrum overloading_ , moaning loudly with every involuntary, reflexive jerk of his hips. He couldn't even care that someone as stupid as Misfire was doing this to him. He felt _so good_.

Misfire's dead weight fell on him, pinning him to the berth. He grunted and didn't try to move. He wasn't convinced his limbs would hold him anyway.

"Nnnnngh," said Misfire, very eloquent, with his face mashed into Fulcrum's back. 

In his peripheral vision he could see the edge of a magenta wing, still shivering. He shut off his optics. He was pinned and he couldn't cycle cool air properly, but nothing hurt and he felt... kind of amazing. His brain module was sort of melted—in the good way, not the smelter way. But he could still tell his brain module had had it, because in this very moment he was finding Misfire endearing and not extremely irritating.

"I thought not liking interfacing meant you'd be worse at it," Misfire slurred. After a long, exhausted second, he found the energy to slap Fulcrum's aft with a resounding clank. Fulcrum jolted. "But this is pretty sweet, isn't it."

Aaaand now he was back to irritating. If only Fulcrum was strong enough to shove him off the berth. Or even just off Fulcrum, really...

**Author's Note:**

> Back when I was working on a prompt fill ([this one](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539775), which was an interesting exercise in learning that you can't de-anon from an anonymous prompt meme on AO3 [yet?]), I wrote half of this, decided it was all wrong and a little ooc and then scrapped it. 
> 
> But here's the thing: I still kind of like this anyway?
> 
> So I cleaned it up and I'm posting it anyway, for anyone who is like me and still maybe kinda likes it. If you did like something please feel free to let me know in the comments (if that's something you like to do).


End file.
